


The Best Kind of Apology

by SparkBeat



Series: Commissions [1]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Misunderstandings, Oral, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, schmoopy apology sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-22
Updated: 2016-02-22
Packaged: 2018-05-22 14:27:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6082836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SparkBeat/pseuds/SparkBeat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ratchet misunderstands a gift from Drift. Drift enjoys his apology.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Best Kind of Apology

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SlimReaper](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SlimReaper/gifts).



> This was a commission for [Iopele/SlimReaper](http://www.iopele.tumblr.com)
> 
> Thank you so much!

“Hey, Ratch?” He didn’t look up at the sound of Drift’s voice in the doorway, wrist deep in the internals of a glitching scanner. He’d finally learned not to jerk his head up at the sound of Drift’s voice while he was working on small things, his optical shutters couldn’t recalibrate to a wider focus fast enough and it always left him dizzy and disoriented. 

 

Instead, he grunted, and Drift stepped inside. The door slid shut behind him with a soft hiss, and he set his tools aside and leaned back in his chair, optics shuttered to reset, listening to the light heel-toe taps as the speedster crossed the room. Training. That’s the only explanation for how the other mech walked so lightly. He and Rodimus were in the same weight class, even if they weren’t visually the same size. Drift carried a surprising amount of weight under that graceful armor, and Ratchet knew he took care to appear as light and unthreatening as possible. 

 

“Whatcha got there?” He asked when his optics finished refocusing and he saw the small package held carefully on open palms. 

 

Drift caught his bottom lip under one sharp fang, and looked away. Bright spots of color rose on his cheeks as he pushed the package into Ratchet’s space. 

 

“Drift?” 

 

“Just open it?” 

 

Ratchet took the wrapped box, about half the length of his forearm, and shook it carefully next to his audial, smirking at Drift. When that garnered no response from the embarrassed mech, he took pity, and swept the pieces of scanner to the side. 

 

Drift had made sure there would be  _ no _ way that box could accidentally come open, he discovered after long minutes spent struggling with the packaging. It culminated in giving up and attacking the edge with an old, broken scalpel blade he hadn’t bothered to throw away yet.

 

It wasn’t till he was lifting the lid that Drift said or did anything. A grey palm pressed down on the lid, and Ratchet looked up to meet Drift’s optics.

 

“Drift, what’s the matter?”

 

“Ahh...nothing!” He ripped his hand back like he’d been scalded, and Ratchet pinned him with a look. The mech was acting weird (er than usual).

 

Lifting the lid on the repurposed packing box, he set it aside, and drew back the folded over metalmesh cloth to reveal a blade reflecting the overhead light back into his optics.

 

There was no note, and Drift didn’t seem to be interested in giving an explanation when Ratchet looked up, so he drew the short blade out of the box and set it aside.

 

“Drift? You wanna tell me why you’re giving me a knife? You know I’m not interested in swords.”

 

He didn’t know quite what to think when the swordsmech’s shoulders slumped, those expressive finials tilting down and bright blue optics dimming slightly.

 

“Drift?”

 

The mech laughed, but it was hollow to Ratchet’s audials as he flapped a hand between them, reaching out to grab the blade back.

 

“You’re right, Ratchet. I’m so sorry, I don’t know what I was thinking!” He was babbling, something he only did when he was hurting and trying to fill the void of silence to distract the other from noticing. Ratchet didn’t let it fool him, wrapping his fingers around Drift’s wrist and holding him steady.

 

He tilted his helm, trying to catch Drift’s optics, but Drift wasn’t interested, twisting his wrist to pull free and backing away.

 

“I’ll catch you later, yea? At Swerves? Grab a drink or something before turning in for the night, ok?” He was halfway out the door as he spoke, and Ratchet had only risen to his feet when the door slid shut behind the white plated mech.

 

Slumping back down in his seat, he studied the packaging Drift had left behind, massaging the bridge of his nasal ridge and venting loudly into the silence.

 

_ What had he done wrong this time? _

 

The box and its wrappings didn’t seem interested in answering, so he tossed them into the trash bin under his desk and leaned back, scrubbing his hands over his face.

 

~~~~~

 

It had been hours later when it hit the medic. He’d thrown himself into mindless grunt work, cleaning the medbay and testing all their equipment to try and clear his processor. 

 

That hurt expression on Drift’s face, the embarrassment and disappointment in his field, it wouldn’t leave him be. 

 

Why would he give him a knife? He knew how much Ratchet abhorred fighting, how glad he was to not  _ have _ to carry more than his standard little pistol anymore, and how nice it was to not feel dread in the pit of his tank if he forgot it in his room anyway.

 

A memory file pinged him while he was busy scrubbing the surface of one of the exam tables, already shiny and clean, now starting to show scour marks across the surface from his rough handling. Leaning over the table on both hands, he let the file play absentmindedly, fingers twisting the cleaning cloth as it played out.

 

_ A knock on the front door of his clinic, too quiet, almost unheard. He could have played it off as a glitch in his audials if not for the sensor over the doorway that reported a mech standing just outside, tripping the proximity alarm.  _

 

_ By the time he’d gotten to the door, medical protocols already online and prepared for whatever injury awaited him from the Dead End today _ ,  _ the mech was gone, and he had half a mind to track him down and drag him back anyway, for making him get up. But his foot hit something on the floor in the little entryway as he made to step out into the street. _

 

_ Looking down, he saw he’d nearly stepped on a small, unobtrusive little package, something wrapped in ragged scraps of cloth and tied together with a piece of frayed wiring from he didn’t want to know where. He looked around again, but whoever had been there, whoever had either left or dropped this, was long gone.  _

 

_ Bending down, he ran a scan over the bundle of cloth, protocols Orion had given him when he’d realized his friend wasn’t going to leave the Dead End clinic, or hire security to screen patients as they came in. Satisfied when the scan came back clean, with no trace of explosives, and no indication of virus from his own protocols, he picked it up and untied it. Digging through the cloth, he finally found a broken shard of plasglass inside, one end worn smooth like it had been polished and handled till it had worn down to something safe to hold, the other end sharp and broken and very capable of causing damage. _

 

_ It wouldn’t have been the first time one of his patients had given him trash as a gift, something that they hoarded for possible use or trade later, that they felt could be used as payment to the medic that patched them up time and again without asking for anything in return except maybe to be a little more careful in the future. _

 

_ He knew he was soft when it came to his patients, knew that he should just throw it away once he was inside, away from the prying optics that were surely hidden somewhere on the dark and dingy street watching him, waiting to see how he received his gift. Instead, he put it in the bin with the rest of the refuse he’d been gifted, and promptly forgot about it. _

 

Slumping back down in his chair, locking his office door remotely at the end of his shift, he pulled up Rung’s comm connection and hesitated. 

 

Maybe he was wrong? Maybe...maybe Drift was just hurt because he was ungrateful? Could it be as simple as that? 

 

But the nagging feeling in his spark, and that little half remembered memory file, they gnawed at his processor till he connected.

 

It took a few long moments for the connection to go from ‘holding’ to ‘live’, and Rung answered with a cheery hello.

 

<Question for you, Rung, if you’ve got the time?> Ratchet wasted no time on the pleasantries. Then again, he never did, so Rung was undoubtedly unsurprised.

 

<Of course, old friend. My next appointment isn’t for a while yet. Would you like me to come to your office, or-?>

 

<No, don’t bother, comm link is fine.> He sighed, leaning forward with his elbows on his desk, face resting in his hands as he went over the day’s events. The gift from Drift, his hurt reaction, the data file that wouldn’t leave him be.

 

<Well...Drift  _ is _ from Rodion. You treated him yourself. You know they place special emphasis on gifts, the ones that were sparked into that life. When you had nothing, to give someone something was extremely sparkfelt.> Rung treaded carefully. Ratchet could hear it in his tone, even over the comm, how he was very pointedly  _ not _ pointing out that Ratchet had just dismissed a gift from someone who didn’t take gifting lightly. Any other mech on this ship, and they’d roll their optics, tell Ratchet he was a glitch, leave the gift anyway, and move on.

 

Drift was probably off in their hab suite or the training rooms, miserable, beating himself up over Ratchet being a glitch, instead of blaming Ratchet’s abysmal manners on Ratchet himself.

 

<Besides that, Ratchet…>

 

<What?> He winced, knowing Rung could tell he snapped, knowing the smaller mech wasn’t going to hold it against him, in that frustratingly calm, ever forgiving way of his.

 

<I don’t know how familiar you are with their...customs. I would assume you have a passing knowledge, with how long you spent in that clinic, but...do you know what sort of special emphasis is placed on the gifting of a weapon? Even just a broken bit of plasglass?>

 

Dread knotted in the pit of his tank, he was worried he knew  _ exactly _ where this was going. If he’d been any less of a mech, he would have cut the connection before Rung could cement his worry about how badly he’d just fragged up.

 

<I’ve spoken with mechs who came from that life, often. You’re aware of this, of course. Their way of thinking was...unique, and borne of the lifestyle they didn’t choose.>

 

<In small, short sentences, doc. My back’s killing me.> Ratchet sighed, fingers curling against his face.

 

<Giving someone a weapon, something you could keep for yourself? It was better than any declaration of love, Ratchet. You’re giving them something you could have used to defend yourself, to keep them safe when you’re not around. If that gift was what I suspect it was, Drift was trying to show you how much he cares for you, in the best way he knows how. And going off the time stamp of that data file, I have to wonder if...perhaps this isn’t the first time he’s made his feelings known to you.>

 

Well  _ slag _ .

 

~~~~~

 

He’d put off leaving his office for as long as he could, but in the end he’d admitted to himself he couldn’t hide in the cramped little space forever. Pulling up the ship’s map, he located the mech he needed to speak with, and headed for one of the training rooms. When he realized he was dragging his feet, he purposefully picked up the pace, stomping down the halls in a manner that apparently unsettled quite a few mechs that leapt out of his way. 

 

Even Tailgate, careening around the halls on that stupid hoverboard, leapt off and skittered out of the way when he saw Ratchet coming. 

 

He’d have found it funny, if he wasn’t too busy steeling himself up for what he was about to do.

 

Inside the training room, he found the mech he’d been hunting down, surrounded by friends.

 

“Rodimus!” He barked, stepping up to the co-captain in the space created by the others that stepped quickly aside when they saw him.

 

“Whatever it is, I didn’t do it!” Rodimus said in a rush, leaning on the practice sword he held in a loose grip in his left hand.

 

Ratchet rolled his optics and looked around at the mechs very pointedly Not Paying Attention to them.

 

“Out. All of you. Before I remember you’re all due for physicals with me and psych evals with Rung.” It was amazing how fast the room cleared out after that, leaving him alone with the suddenly twitchy speedster.

 

“Look, Ratchet, whatever crawled up your exhaust port and died today, do me a favor and pull it back out, would you?” Rodimus glared at him as he stomped past, heading towards the weapons rack, and the door beyond.

 

Ratchet grabbed his shoulder, halting him in his tracks, and glared back.

 

“I came here with a request, you aft. Wanna find out what it is before you go storming off in a huff because I chased off all your friends?” Rodimus rolled his optics, shrugging free of his grip and waving his hand in the air in a ‘get on with it’ gesture.

 

“Show me how to use one of those?” He nudged the dull training sword that Rodimus had been dragging behind him, tip trailing the floor in a show of how little respect the co-captain treated the fake weapons with, and managed to just hold back the snigger at his wide optics.

 

“Eh? Why not ask Drift? You two might as well be attached at the hip, and he knows more than me anyway. Pits, he’s the one that’s  _ teaching _ me.” Rodimus protested, armor clamping down tight. Ratchet wasn’t sure, but he thought maybe it was to protect himself from the wrench he thought he’d get for refusing the medic.

 

“Just show me the basics? I don’t want to be proficient.”

 

“Then _why_ _bother_?” Rodimus pressed, hefting the sword up to rest along the front of his shoulder vent.

 

“Oh  _ never mind. _ ” Ratchet snarled, stomping past him back towards the door.

 

“Hey, old mech!” He turned to give the younger mech a piece of his processor, and only just stepped out of the way when Rodimus lunged at him, practice blade held out in front. 

 

“Never said I wouldn’t be happy to hit on you for a little while!” Ratchet fixed him with an incredulous look, and Rodimus’ optics widened when he realized what exactly he’d just said.

 

“N-not like  _ that! _ Jeeez! Not all of us want a rust bucket in berth!!!”

 

~~~~~

 

Drift had avoided their suite the last two days, and Ratchet had had no luck finding him. When Drift wanted to disappear, he was a ghost. Another leftover talent from the Dead End Ratchet would never admit he hated to the self conscious speedster. He’d scoured the ship to no avail, knowing that Drift would have wedged himself into a dark corner somewhere where he’d never be unwillingly rooted out, if he was as upset as Ratchet suspected he was. 

 

So when the door opened with an inhabitants code the evening of the third day, Ratchet didn’t give himself time to think. 

 

He launched himself off the berth, picking up the practice swords he’d appropriated from the training room, tossing one into the surprised speedster’s face as he swung out.

 

Drift caught the sword neatly, optics narrowing, the surprise in his field being pushed away by that calm focus he always had when training or fighting, and parried Ratchet’s pathetic attempt at an attack, mock blades sliding across one another till the crossguards clanged together and Ratchet was face to face with his wayward love.

 

“Ratch?” He didn’t answer, pushing Drift away and stepping back, holding his sword up and keeping his focus on Drift’s frame, and not his face. He twitched when Drift’s forward foot slid to the side, but wasn’t quick enough to completely dodge the blade that clanged off his hip and sent him stumbling back towards the berth.

 

The next time Drift lunged forward, Ratchet threw his sword in Drift’s face, and used the split second of surprise to step into the other mech’s space, wrapping his arms around his striped waist and lifting him bodily off the ground, twisting and tossing him onto the berth. Before Drift could retaliate, Ratchet was straddling his hips, wrapping his hands around the speedster’s wrists and pressing them into the mattress. 

 

Drift bucked up, optics widened again, and Ratchet grinned, leaning down to claim a kiss. The fight was suddenly gone from the mech beneath him, his frame relaxing under Ratchet as Drift gasped, lips parting under his.

 

When they pulled apart, it was with fans running high and a flush on Drift’s cheeks, working it’s way quickly up to his finials. Ratchet shifted both of Drift’s wrists into one hand, pinning them over his head and cupping his cheek with his now freed hand.

 

“I’m sorry I didn’t act grateful. I didn’t realize what that meant. But Drift, you know I can take care of myself, right?” Drift’s optics were still wide, lips parted in a soft ‘o’, and he nodded, turning his face into Ratchet’s hand and pressing a kiss to the palm.

 

“I do...I’m sorry I didn’t think the gift through, I just-” 

 

“Hey, Drift, don’t apologize, okay? A gift is a gift, and no matter what it was, I shouldn’t have been ungrateful. You wanna make sure I’m safe, and I appreciate that,” He pressed a kiss to Drift’s helm crest, smiling at the little hitch in his vents, “But don’t forget that I survived millennia of war, and working in the Dead End before that. Not to mention surviving every run in with Wheeljack to date.” Drift nodded, laughing at the last little bit, and the movement brought his finials into range. Leaning to the side a bit, he trailing kisses up the top edge of one, suckling on the very tip, enjoying the way the metal instantly heated against his lips.

 

Beneath him, Drift squirmed, another little gasp stalling his vents for a moment. Pulling back with an over-exaggerated ‘pop’, he sat up and smirked.

 

“And now that I’ve disarmed such a fearsome foe, what should I do with him, hmmm?” Drift snorted, wriggling beneath him, putting up an extremely half sparked attempt at escape that Ratchet settled by shifting to sit on his thighs and dragging his hand from Drift’s cheek down over his chestplate, following the line of black over his armor to his panel, already warm to the touch.

 

Tracing the outline of his panel, he smiled up at Drift, tapping the heated metal. Drift bit his lip, shaking his head and laughing.

 

“You haven’t quite defeated me yet, Ratch. Gonna make you earn that.” Ratchet hummed, stretching up to mouth at the side of the lithe mech’s throat, nipping at a thick cable and savoring the way Drift tilted his helm to the side, arching, giving Ratchet better access. 

 

He could hear one of Drift’s finial points catching on the mattress, probably tearing it, but it could be patched later. He worked his way down from jaw to collar fairing in little nips and suckling kisses to flexing cables and tubing, while Drift whined and gasped beneath him. 

 

His hand continued to massage the plating between quivering thighs, right over where he knew Drift’s anterior node was already glowing brightly. Mouthing over the edge of his chestplate, he pressed a kiss to the recently reapplied Autobrand, and heard Drift’s vents hitch, for an entirely different reason. 

 

He moved on quickly, not wanting to wreck the mood. Each individual stripe along his waist was paid separate attention, glossa teasing at the seams, fingers tracing where they disappeared under his central armor line.

 

Pausing, he sat up, and Drift pouted, twisting underneath him to try and find some sort of stimulation once more. 

 

“Giving up already?” Drift whined, and Ratchet wasn’t fooled at the attempt to conceal it behind a cocky tone of voice. He squeezed the wrists trapped in his hand, and tugged till Drift straightened his arms over his head. Positioned as he was, his fingers curled instinctively around the slats of the headboard, where the charging cables disappeared in the wall.

 

“Keep your hands there.” He instructed, swatting at the frowning red brand on Drift’s chest when he uncurled his fingers and smirked. “I’m the winner, so do as I say.”

 

“But Ratch-”

 

“Should have been quicker, if you wanted to be on top.” Ratchet squeezed his cheeks with one hand, tilting Drift’s helm up so he could kiss him again. With both hands free, he could shift now, kneeling between rounded thighs instead of straddling them, sliding his hands down that trim waist and under his legs, guiding them up to press against Drift’s chestplate and bare his still covered array. 

 

Glancing up under the shadow of his chevron, he watched for a moment as Drift chewed on his lower lip and flexed his fingers around the headboard slats, clearly torn between wanting to touch, and wanting to behave and see how Ratchet played this out.

 

Satisfied to see he was planning on behaving (for the time being, anyway), he bent to press a kiss to the speedster’s panel, and pinned him down with the hands on the backs of his thighs when he started to squirm again, trying to press up against Ratchet’s mouth while he teased at the seams, visible now as heat warped the plating and lubricant started to gather in the miniscule gaps.

 

Finally, Drift’s panel slid aside, and Ratchet was treated to the sight of his valve, already soaked with lubricants. Drift was watching him, optics burning bright, cheeks and finials flushed, lip plates parted, and when Ratchet pressed his glossa between shining folds of metalmesh to the rim beyond, he threw his helm back, arching up off the berth, whining and gasping. When he moved on to the glowing nub of sensor endings just above, the whines turned to moans, and it was much harder than before to hold him still.

 

He nipped carefully at the pulsing anterior node, and lifted his head to study his lover carefully. Drift was already throwing off enough heat to warp the air around them, and his fingers curled into the headboard hard enough to dent.

 

“Drift?” His optics onlined again, and he wiggled his hips enticingly, trying to draw Ratchet’s attention back to where he needed it the most. Ratchet was more than willing to comply, but first, “Bring your hands down here.” He caught both hands when they instantly relocated to his helm, and set them on the backs of Drift’s thighs.

 

“Hold yourself open for me?” Drift moaned, knowing where Ratchet was going with this, and nodding frantically as he curled his fingers around his legs behind his knees.

 

Ratchet studied him for a moment, kneeling on the berth, running his hands over taut thigh plates, the curve of his aft, admiring the tiny tremors that vibrated just beneath the plating. Then he leaned in, laving his glossa over Drift’s nub and spreading the folds of his valve apart and pressing two fingers into the tight, clenching heat.

 

Catching his node carefully between his dentae, applying just the slightest bit of pressure, and Drift’s fans sped up. His valve flexed around his fingers, and Ratchet curled them, dragging over the grouping of sensors along the front wall of his valve that swapped charge back and forth between valve and spike housing.

 

It was like a switch had been flipped. Drift’s optics flared up white, and he nearly drew Ratchet over into overload with him as his valve cycled down tight around his fingers, trying to pull them in deeper as Drift shuddered and gasped his way through his first overload of the night.

 

Ratchet didn’t ease up though, spreading his fingers against the tight flex of calipers, sliding through the lubricants that first overload had produced. Shifting just a bit, he pressed an open mouthed kiss over the other mech’s spike housing, glossa dipping in when the cover irised open to stroke and tease at the head of his spike. With his free hand, he rolled and teased Drift’s node, slick with Ratchet’s oral lubricants, as the other mech whimpered. 

 

Drift’s fingers tightening against his legs and there was the telltale sound of his finials ripping into the mattress as he arched up again, body one long curve as his spike pressurized straight into Ratchet’s mouth, and another overload.

 

The burst of fluids over his glossa, and the way Drift’s hips twitched as he suckled on the very tip before releasing it from his mouth with a contented sigh, and he wasn’t at all surprised to feel lubricants trickling down his thighs from behind his still closed panel. It wasn’t the first time Drift had managed, knowing or unknowingly, to make him overload in his panel, and it undoubtedly wouldn’t be the last.

 

Ratchet eased his legs down to drape over either side of his lap, petting his thighs as Drift gasped, trying to bring his venting back under control. It wasn’t long that Ratchet was able to sit and admire Drift’s frame before the speedster was shifting in his lap, rubbing against his panel. 

 

“What’s the highest number of overloads you’ve ever had in one night?” Drift reset his optics twice, tilting his helm and hooking a fang over his lower lip.

 

“Ahhh….4? That time on shore leave, you and me? With the spreader bar and that vibrator you had? Why?”

 

Ratchet hooked one hand under Drift’s hip, rolling him over, earning a squeak of feedback when Drift suddenly found himself face down in the berth, sure enough with little bits of bedding impaled on his finials. He reached up, pulling them off and dropping them over the side as he leaned in and mouthed at first one, then the other. Drift tried to push himself up, and Ratchet put a hand in the middle of his back, pressing him back down. 

 

“Nope. You stay right there. I plan on surpassing that 4 tonight, and I want to spoil you rotten.” He felt the shiver run down Drift’s spinal strut at that, and leaned in to press a kiss to the back of his neck. 

 

“This okay?” He asked, hands steady on the line of the Great Sword, fingers firm on the channel locks holding it in place. Drift didn’t reply, but the release of those clasps and the way the Sword was suddenly released into his hands was acknowledgement enough. He set it aside, finding that propping it against the berthside table was as far as he was willing to go for honoring Drift’s most valuable possession when he had a squirmy speedster between his thighs.

 

His hands curved around Drift’s waist again, fingers firm as he massaged the overlapping plates back into proper alignment, still nibbling at the back of his neck, his collar fairing, the empty channel along his back, anywhere he could reach. Once the side stripes of his abdominal plating had been smoothed out, Ratchet slid his hands up, over the mechanisms in the backs of his shoulders, unkinking wires and cables as he went, and Drift’s fingers clenched and relaxed rhythmically in the sheets. 

 

When he started to work his way back down, fingers digging in on either side of his spinal strut, Drift buried his face in the sheets, hips rocking down into the mattress, trying to find some sort of friction for his neglected spike. Ratchet cupped his aft with both hands, and Drift pushed back into the touch. 

 

A light swat earned him a low moan that echoed in the swordsmech’s chest, and Ratchet smiled into his back plating, pressing his heated panel against Drift’s aft.   

 

“Ah...Ratch, please?  _ Frag _ ...I swear, I’ll be good, I won’t move, but  _ please _ , I want you so badly…” Drift’s vents hitched and hiccuped as he spoke, warbling and distorting his vocalizer, and his plea turned into a keen as Ratchet’s panel slid aside and his spike pressurized against his plating.

 

“I’ve got you, Drift. It’s okay, I’ve got you.” Ratchet spoke into his audial as he shifted, sliding his spike through the wet folds of his lover’s valve, the head of his spike catching on the rim on the second try and pressing into the tight clench of his calipers while Drift rose up onto his elbows, babbling praise and nonsense in equal turn.

 

Ratchet wasn’t able to really get any leverage to thrust, in this position, but he was content to rock against Drift, little ringing sounds echoing in his audials as their plating slid together. He slid his arms under Drift’s chest, curling his hands over the tops of his shoulders and pulling him tight against his frame.

 

For long, blissful minutes, they pressed together like that, Ratched venting heavily against Drift’s back, and Drift whimpering into the sheets, hips raised up off the berth.

 

When Drift raised his face out of the sheets, staring unseeing at the headboard, mouth dropping open, Ratchet brought one hand down to wrap around the other mech’s spike, pumping a counterpoint to his own slow, rocking movements against Drift.

 

“C’mon, sweetspark. Overload for me?” Drift rose up, nearly hitting Ratchet in the face with the back of his helm, then curled down with his face buried in his hands, a high keen escaping his vocalizer as transfluid striped the sheets beneath him, and his valve cycled down around Ratchet’s spike near tight enough to wreck his self control and pull him over the edge too. He pressed his face into Drift’s back, venting deeply, trying to focus on anything other than how Drift’s calipers cycled in a wave, top to bottom, bottom to top, over and over again as he overloaded. 

 

When Drift slumped down strutless into the sheets again, Ratchet leaned up to whisper into his audial. “That was number three. At least two more to go.” He pulled out, admiring the way Drift’s valve cycled down, trying to entice him back.

 

“Mmmm, Ratch? Can I roll over? I like being able to see you.” Ratchet shifted, letting the other mech roll over slowly, clearly relaxed and nearly blissed out going by the goofy grin on his face when he caught sight of Ratchet. 

 

Arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him down into a soft, slow, drawn out kiss. He let his hands wander over Drift’s frame, continuing his plating massage and wire check, while Drift ran his glossa over his lips, dipping inside when Ratchet moaned, tasting himself on Ratchet’s glossa and venting hard. 

 

Ratchet slid one hand down Drift’s side, hooking under his thigh and guiding his leg up to drape over the medic’s hip. Sliding back into Drift’s valve pulled a moan from both of their vocalizers, and this time, Ratchet could set the pace he knew Drift liked best. Linking their hands, pressing them down into the mattress on either side of Drift’s head, he started a slow, steady pace that had him hitting the node clusters near the back of the other mech’s valve that elicited the best responses. Drift gasped, sobbed, fingers tightening against his.

 

Ratchet desperately wanted to lean down and kiss away the bruise Drift had worried into his bottom lip, but their optics locked, and he refused to break that, pressing in tight and shifting his hands into the signs for ‘I love you’ as Drift’s optics whited out and he tipped into overload again. With the other mech’s optics offline, Ratchet had no problems dropping down to his elbows, pressing kisses to the corners of Drift’s slack mouth until the speedster responded, tilting his head and searching blindly for Ratchet’s mouth.

 

Breaking apart, gasping, vents screaming and plating expanded to dump excess heat, Ratchet set a much faster pace, plating ringing as he thrust through the last few moments of Drift’s most recent overload, drawing it out till Drift couldn’t make a sound anymore, vocalizer cutting off in a screech of feedback, his mouth open on a soundless cry as Ratchet finally,  _ finally _ , overloaded. 

 

For a short while, Ratchet couldn’t find the strength or the want to move, slumped against Drift, spike slowly depressurizing, still buried in the silken warmth of his valve. It wasn’t until Drift started to giggle that he managed to push himself back up onto his hands and knees, only just swallowing the disappointed whine as he pulled out of Drift.

 

“And  _ what _ , might I ask, is so funny?” 

 

Drift shook his head, clapping both hands over his mouth as if that would silence the laughter. Then he held up four fingers, grinning.

 

“Thought …  _ heh _ ...thought you were gonna break the record.” Drift managed, wiping the cleanser from the corners of his optics.

 

Ratchet tilted his helm, a wicked smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth, and Drift slowly lowered his hand.

 

“Love...do you  _ really  _ think I need a pressurized spike to get another overload out of you?  _ Hmmm? _ ” Drift’s optics widened as Ratchet slid down his frame, and swallowed down around his rapidly repressurizing spike without preamble. Drift’s hands were back over his mouth, this time to silence something most decidedly  _ not _ laughter, and Ratchet chuckled, the vibrations making Drift whine, fingers dimpling his cheeks as he struggled to stay quiet.

 

That wouldn’t do  _ at all _ , Ratchet decided, hollowing his cheeks and tracing the line of biolights on the underside of Drift’s spike with his glossa as he reached up and tugged the other mech’s hands away from his face. 

 

“Oh... _ oh slag….Primus below,  _ **_Ratch!_ ** ” Ratchet hummed, looking up at Drift, who’d propped himself up on his hands to watch as Ratchet bobbed his helm, lips sliding along the shaft of his spike so nicely, and he had thought he’d last longer, the more overloads he’d had, but Ratchet always proved him wrong. He’d thought maybe,  _ possibly _ , he could hold out for a while, until Ratchet grabbed one of his hands, waiting till he’d shifted his balance to sit up more before pulling the captured hand up to rest it on the back of Ratchet’s head.

 

He leaned forward, curling both hands now around red helm armor, and Ratchet let him pull him in flush against his plating, and relaxed his intake as Drift managed a few abortive little thrusts before overloading with a shout. Drift’s hands were shaking when they released their grip on his helm, cupping his cheeks and tilting his helm back so Drift could see the little dribble of transfluid that had leaked from the corner of his mouth. 

 

Drift nearly knocked them both off the berth, pressing Ratchet up and back, kissing him,  _ hard _ , the taste of himself on Ratchet’s lips and glossa not quite enough to rev him up a sixth time, but it was a near thing.

 

As they lay basking in the comfortable silence after, broken only by the occasional pings of cooling armor and the whine of fans still working harder than normal, Drift rolled over to rest his head on Ratchet’s windshield, tracing little nonsense patterns into the glass under his cheek.

 

“I’m sorry about the misunderstanding, Ratchet. I figured when you didn’t toss the gift back into the streets, back then, that you’d known what it meant. So I thought I was just upgrading my gift...I didn’t think for a second that you’d-”

 

“That was you, with that little plasglass shard?” Drift nodded, rolling over so his chin rested on Ratchet’s chest and one arm draped over his side.

 

“I told you, I’d fallen for you the minute I woke up in your clinic. Everything I did from then on, even the misguided things, they were all in an effort to bring me back around to you again.”

 

Ratchet felt something give a little flutter in his spark, and sighed, wrapping an arm around Drift’s back and hauling him up so they were face to face.

 

“Drift, sweetspark...I love you. Never,  _ ever _ doubt that. But I had no idea back then, and no idea the other day. If you have any other Rodion customs you’re gonna spring on me, explain them to me, would you?”

 

Drift grinned, nodding and giving him a quick kiss.

 

“Promise!”

 

“Good. And next time? If you’re gonna give me a weapon, can it at least be a saw? Something I can use in the medbay maybe? You know I’m good with a wrench in a pinch.” 


End file.
